Futilities of Futilities by Cirdan

Futilities of Futilities

Read Futilities of Futilities

            The hallowed Jewel burns my hand, but I’m used to pain.  The Silmaril tells me I am unworthy, but I’ve lived with such slanders before; after all, I’m a Kinslayer.  I endured the torment of Morgoth.  I can endure the torment of the Silmaril.  But why?  People marvel that I survived my hanging upon the precipice of Thangorodrim.  It is a marvel, but not for the reasons they think.  What could Morgoth have done to me that can be worse than what I had then?  I never wanted to be born.  I never asked to be born.  And so he tormented me by keeping me alive.

            In the end, it's not worth it.  It's just plain not worth it.  We struggle every day just to exist.  If we're lucky, we have a brief moment of happiness, or not even happiness, maybe just a moment of something akin to content, just the feeling of not being unhappy or miserable or numb.  And we push forward, waiting for these moments, telling ourselves that this is what we live for.  This 1% of our life if even that much.  And then you have to ask yourself, is it worth it?  Is it worth it to suffer for that other 99% of the time?  Is it worth the bitching and whining and feeling of emptiness for that second when you feel like maybe there's a reason behind it all.  Maybe it's okay that I suffer that 99% of the time because that 1% moment was so very wonderful.  Or better yet, maybe it's worth it if I suffer 99.999% of the time not because there's 0.001% of life that is "not bad" but because then others can find some small measure of happiness or lack of sadness in their lives.  Maybe what I do, maybe my suffering for others, is doing some small good.

            And then you realize, it's not worth it.  This life isn't worth it.  There is no 0.001%.  It's all an illusion.  I look into the Silmaril and see Light that blinds people from the truth, from the darkness and sheer emptiness that is our existence.  What a cruel, cruel joke that I should be brought into existence at all.  And then I try to convince myself that it's okay, that there's a reason for it, that it's not all that bad, really, and that at least I can help my brothers find some measure of happiness even if I can't.

            Futilities of futilities, all is futility.

            I hate this place.  But the Elves are bound to Arda, and the Gift to go beyond was granted only to Men.  I'm trapped, and there's no escape.  I struggle; I work; I just plain exist.  And if I didn't exist, it also wouldn't matter.  The world goes on, or doesn't.  And it's not even that I want to make a difference, though I always think that's what I want.  It's just that this is a life with no end.  Whether I struggle to survive, make something of myself or not, try to better the world for others, try to better life for my family or my people, it doesn't matter.  Nothing does.  They also struggle through life, trying to find the ever elusive something akin to happiness.  None of it is worth it.

            I tell myself all the time, no, no, just let the mood pass.  It's just a mood swing.  Afterwards, if nothing else, at least you'll be left with a numb feeling, not the really sharp sting of a meaningless existence.  And I've been telling myself those kinds of things for so long now...  What happens when you realize, no, you were right in the first place.  It's not worth it.  It's not worth delaying the inevitable because it's not as if anything will change.  Nothing's changed.  Nothing has ever changed.  It's just a matter of finding new lies to convince myself that everything is okay, or that everything will be okay.  Yes, the mood will pass, and then everything won't seem so bad.  It doesn't mean that it's not so bad; it just means it won't seem so bad.  One lie after another to avoid the inevitable until the inevitable catches up and the choice is taken from you.  No, no lie that the Dark Lord spread could compare to the ultimate lie that is our existence.

            Nurse that pathetic little survival instinct.  Hope that it tells you that life is worth living or that you're too scared to die if nothing else.  Wait for the mood to pass.  It won't give life any more meaning, but at least the issue will be in the back of your mind.  Not so bad, right?  Living for that 0.001%.  Living for the off-chance that life is worth living.  Pushing forward only to look back and feel the growing weight of the futilities of futilities.

            I see my reflection in the Light of the Silmaril and realize, no, really, you were right in the first place.  You were right all along.  It wasn't worth it, that 99.999% of the time.  It never was.

            I don't want to do this anymore.  I don't want to play this futile little game.  I never have wanted to play it.  I don't want to keep waiting for moods to pass and moments of clarity to convince me that there is a reason behind it all, that it does all mean something, even if it means just a little small something.

            In the end, it's just not worth it.  All of it.  None of it is worth it.  This Silmaril is not worth it.

            The cruelest thing someone can unwittingly do is to bring another person into existence in the hopes of creating meaning in his own existence only to force that child to realize the same futility of existence.  If Feanor and Nerdanel were so in love with each other, they should’ve loved and kept us out of it.  I wish I'd never been born, but that wasn't my choice to make.  There is a choice that I can make though.

            We do not suffer from cowardice, from cravens or the fear of cravens...

            I admit it.  I'm scared to do this.  I look into the fiery chasm, and, yes, I'm scared to do this.  But we will go on!